by Ronie Kendig
“Maybe it’s your good looks keeping me here.”
“Well,” he said with a cocky grin, “clearly.”
Iskra rolled her eyes, the teasing edge of a laugh crawling up her throat.
“But beyond that . . .” His fingers closed gently around her wrist. His touch was warm.
Iskra realized her mistake. She’d been so caught up in his banter and figuring out how to lure him in that she hadn’t noticed him erasing the gap between them. It set off a nuke inside her. She punched to her feet, heart hammering, and panicked when he came with her, that grip firmer but gentle.
She could’ve broken his grip, could’ve snapped his wrist. But she didn’t. Instead, she braved his gaze. “If you want to keep that hand, release me.”
His shoulder pressed into hers as they stared at each other. He was truly gorgeous. And intense. He meant what he said. That she could trust him—he wasn’t playing her.
“I need the book.” His breath was a whisper against her cheek. His touch hot but not harsh. Yet too much like Hristoff.
“Then you should’ve gotten there first.”
She had just lifted her arm to wrest free when movement by the front door told her this man’s proximity wasn’t the only thing she’d missed.
Hristoff’s men. Tension snapped through her veins, snatching her breath. No. No, he couldn’t know. Shouldn’t know. First Veratti, now Hristoff? When had she gotten so sloppy? They had come for her—she was dead. And if this man touched her, he was dead.
He started to look over his shoulder.
“No,” she hissed, snapping his blue eyes back to her. He might be cocky, but she didn’t want his death on her conscience. “Let go,” she said in a low, controlled voice. When his brow furrowed in confusion, she hurried on. “Now. Or they’ll kill you.”
As his fingers fell away, leaving her wrist strangely cold, he narrowed his eyes. “Peychinovich.”
Good guess. She skidded a sidelong look at the door. No time for dialogue. She’d used up the few seconds it would take for the men to assess the situation and determine if this man standing too close to Hristoff’s favorite toy needed a lesson. If that happened, the task set by Veratti would be undone. That meant Bisera would be in danger. The best thing she could do for this American and herself would be to walk out.
“Hey,” he said, moving to intercept her again.
“I’m not for hire,” she said loudly, then slapped him.
He jerked, startled. His cheek bore the imprint of her palm—but his look said he understood that she was covering for him. That she’d just protected him.
“There a problem here?” Emir demanded.
Unshakable, he didn’t flinch at the voice of the bartender.
Don’t do or say anything. Please. “We’re good, Emir.” She huffed and turned toward him. “Just an American acting like he owns the place.”
“Thinking about another drink.” The soldier watched, telegraphing too much through those pale eyes. “Thought the lady might join me.”
She wished she could.
Emir grunted. “Bar’s closed.”
THIRTEEN
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Read between the lines.
Between the disparate women he’d just interacted with: the one who moments ago seemed on the verge of opening up to him, and the one now walking away. Her face had lost its color, her fight its flush.
Leif mustered every ounce of control, forcing himself to stay put. To avoid engaging his skills or team.
The way the atmosphere shifted, the way she changed—subtly but notably—at the appearance of those men gave a strong indication that they had a leash on her. Whether out of loyalty or fear, it didn’t matter—same result. And disgusting.
Fists clenched, he watched as the bartender steered her to the counter. To the thugs.
Culver was moving closer, and Leif gave a slight shake of his head, telling him to stand down. He tracked the rest of the team as they left the bar. Good. Too much tension here. He skipped back to Lawe, still at the counter. Head down.
C’mon. Roll out. If Viorica was nervous with the newcomers . . .
Why wasn’t Lawe moving? He seemed lost in his cups, but that man was never lost. When he looked up, he was focused on something. Forced Leif to search the bar.
And spot the problem: Viorica. Coming straight at him. His chest ached with expectation.
“Next time,” she snapped at him, “perhaps check out your competition”—she lifted her forgotten purse from the chair, then swung around very close, breathing into his face—“before you abandon the top mission.”
Top mission? Leif wanted to react. Wanted to catch her arm and tell her to come with them. To stay. Give him the book. They could work together to sort out what it meant. But the thugs by the door warned that if he did, he’d leave this club on a stretcher or in a bag.
One heavyweight broke from the group and pounded toward Leif.
Fight or flight? Fight or flight?
Neither.
“What are you doing here?” the man barked, waving a gun he no doubt would use. “Touch a prized jewel and get your hand cut off.”
“Whoa-ho.” Leif put a wobble into his step and a slur into his speech. “Ain’t doing no harm.” Maybe that was too much. “Just having a nice chat with a pretty lady.”
A fist flew at his face.
He let it connect. Fling him backward. His ribs collided with the table. With a grunt—the pain was legit—he stumbled. Rolled around and collapsed into the chair, then fell over it, relieved to find the big guy thudding toward the front door. Shoving Viorica ahead.
She met his gaze. Then put her nose in the air. But the look she gave him in between tripped him up. Had him wondering what he was supposed to do. What message did she intend to telegraph through her hazel eyes? Because he read a whole lot of help me.
You always do.
But what if it wasn’t just him reading that? What if it was real trouble?
“Bathroom that way,” the bartender growled in broken English. “Go. Get out.” He probably didn’t want someone getting killed in his club.
Leif considered the beefy man and realized the irritation in his words wasn’t irritation. It was . . . concern?
Had he read the situation, too? He knew her long before you did. So maybe Leif should listen to the guy. Or maybe he should help her. Like, now. He glanced to the front of the room again.
Lawe slipped out of the bar. Two guards lingered, watching Leif as if itching to use their weapons. They were also buying time for the other guy to get away with Viorica. Leif had just lost the primary target and the primary objective. He bit back a curse.
“If you want her live,” the bartender hissed as he bumped Leif’s shoulder, “out the back.”
The words hit a soft spot. Speared Leif with worry and alarm. But he couldn’t show that. Stowing his surprise, he again faked drunkenness and stumbled through the narrow corridor. Banked left and found the door. Indecision gripped him. If he went out this way, he’d definitely lose her and the book. But if he didn’t, he could lose his life.
A flurry of Russian climbed down the passage after him—a thug.
“They’ll kill you.” Her warning told Leif to shake off his hesitation. His failure. Get moving. He had to trust the bartender, who said leaving this way would keep Viorica alive for him to find later. Had to trust that his team, who’d left before the operative, might have the chance to tail her. But him? He was out of luck.
Teeth gritted, he punched open the door and pushed into the cool evening. A shout from behind urged him into a jog.
Metal slammed against concrete as the thugs emerged from the club. They were coming after him. A loose end to tie up.
Bullets chomped into concrete walls beside him. There was no polite Hollywood-like order to stop. Just a promise of pain or death. Possibly both.
Feet pounded behind him.
Leif broke into a sprint. Veered hard left, using the wall to swin
g around the corner. Wood splintered off a fence, nicking his face.
He ducked but kept running. Avoided parked cars. Mangy cats. Garbage and a rank puddle. Twenty meters ahead, he spotted another alley. Pitched himself into it. It bottlenecked but left enough room for a person to dart through its innards. The same space provided a perfect shooting range. Narrowed the field of vision. Gave him less room to escape.
So don’t get shot.
At the crack of a weapon, he dove into a roll, then came up running. A searing trail hit his shoulder as the sonic boom of another bullet leaving the chamber reached his ears. “Augh!” He threw himself out of the confined space and into the open. Banked right.
Shouts and thudding steps pursued him.
The panicked blare of a truck’s horn screeched through the street. “Ahtars, majnun!”
“Hey!” came from behind.
“Get out of the way!” the truck driver shouted in Arabic.
That voice gave Leif the courage to keep running. To get out of sight and make his way to the rendezvous. But it wasn’t just a truck driver. Leif’s mind caught up to the fact that the voice belonged to Baddar, driving the van that probably held Cell and Mercy.
He started to slow, then changed his mind. The thumping of his pursuer’s feet warned him to steer clear. If they saw him get into the van, they were all compromised.
Reassured he’d given the guards the slip, Leif slowed to a fast walk to put as much distance between himself and them as possible. He navigated the crowded city with its white-plastered buildings and tangled streets. His thoughts drifted back through his conversation with the operative. The myriad details he would add to the intel profile on Iskra Todorova. Viorica.
Why had they named her the Wild Rose? She wasn’t wild. Not the woman he’d met. She was dogged. Decisive. Used to being in control. Though he might’ve seen a lot, only one thing badgered him—the undercurrent beneath her cold façade that weighted her responses, held her captive. It was so familiar. It reminded him of the first time he’d met Danielle, his sister-in-law. She’d been traumatized in captivity by the brutality of a Venezuelan guerilla general.
Something in Leif twisted at that memory. He wasn’t sure what, but it made him furious.
Head back in the game, Runt.
He took out his phone and used the navigation to steer north out of the city as agreed. The system isolated his location, labeling nearby buildings. Yeah, yeah. Butcher, baker—
Leif stopped in his tracks. Stared his screen, disbelieving what he saw. What he had heard. “. . . before you abandon the top mission.”
But that last word . . .
He quickened his pace and darted across the street, heading up and over a block, thinking about the way she’d said mission. More like a French word, with the see-on ending. It had bugged him then. Even more now that his mind was trying to blur two words into one meaning.
He followed the map around the block and stared up the street at a green sign hanging above a suited bellhop. A black SUV idled in the street. The Misyon.
Mission.
His heart thumped. He hadn’t misheard her. It had been a message. A hint. A plea.
Back up, Chief. Leaping without looking got soldiers killed. Rubbing his chin, he eyed the building. Trap? Probably.
He needed to rethink everything about the operative. Her words, her motives. First, he had to be stealthy. Figure this out—had she been giving a hint about where to find her?
Her goons spot you, you’re dead.
But if she’d been giving him a hint, luring him to her hotel . . . why? Though she was beautiful and their attraction crackled, he was sure the hint hadn’t been to invite a fling. Things were too hot right now, and not just between them. Besides, that black SUV warned she had no carnal intentions.
So. She needed . . . help?
Letting the shadows of an alcove absorb him, he studied the multistoried structure. Traced its height. Where was her room?
. . . top mission.
“Holy . . .” Had she really even dropped a clue on which floor? If she wanted to be found, it made sense to make his task easier. Right?
Quite a leap there.
Yeah, but he’d take it. Because it was that or search the whole blasted hotel.
When his phone vibrated, he backed against the wall and answered. “Yeah.”
“You okay?” Culver asked.
“Yeah.” Going in was stupid. Limited his exfil options. Increased his probability of being seen or captured.
But she’d dropped the hint about abandoning his mission—to get the book. Means she wants me here. Wants me to find her.
Right, and the black widow lured idiot males into her web.
Fist to his mouth, he came up blank. He might not have an infil plan, but leaving wasn’t happening. Not yet. Not till he explored this. Found a way in. This is really stupid.
“Baddar said you got hit.”
“Huh?” The words snapped him back to Culver on the phone and the fire in his shoulder he’d ignored. Leif checked the wound. “Yeah.” A line of dark red trailed the meaty part below the joint. “Tagged me. A graze.” He eyed the hotel again.
“She left in a black SUV,” Culver said, bouncing Leif’s attention to the black armored Suburban at the curb and the waiting thugs. “Cell’s tracking her. Or trying. He’s a bit slow.”
“It’s called triangulation, and it takes time,” explained Cell in the background, eliciting chuckles from the team.
“Forget it. Waste of resources,” Leif muttered, scanning doors and steps up the street. Could he go around the back? Have less chance of being seen that way? “Get to the rendezvous. I’ll be there by”—he checked his watch—“twenty hundred.”
“Copy that.”
He ended the call and stalked up the street, gaze sliding and mapping the threats he would encounter. Two front guards. Another two in the lobby. Possibly a couple by the elevator. Likely more at the rear entrance, if the hotel had one.
Six to one. Not impossible . . .
Who was he kidding? Too many.
There had to be a garage, right? For a building this tall and luxurious and with that many rooms—definitely. They wouldn’t let their ultra-rich customers hoof it through the elements. Then again, most filthy rich people had staff to assist.
So. Garage—yes or no?
Lights flashed in his eyes, seemingly from belowground—then leveled out. A car swung onto the street and headed away. Bingo! Leif shot between two cars jockeying around the black SUV and hustled up the walk to the gaping mouth of the parking structure. Alert, he descended the ramp into the lower section, scanning for the stairs or elevator or more thugs.
His phone vibrated again. With a huff, he answered. “What?”
“Uh . . . hey, man.” Cell sounded distracted or hesitant. Maybe both.
“What’s up? Kind of busy not getting killed,” Leif muttered, spotting the sign for the elevator. He dove between two cars.
“Yeah, um, thought I might help with that.”
He stepped into the elevator. “How’s that?” He checked the number panel. The floors went to twenty-four, so he selected twenty-three. It was probably better to ride most of the way up, then hit the stairs. Avoid getting riddled by bullets when he stepped out.
“If you’re near a certain hotel, then—”
Leif’s pulse skipped a beat, wondering how Cell knew his location. Were they tracking him?
“—just know. He’s there.”
The doors slid shut.
“Who?” The gilt-mirrored box glided upward.
“Just . . . —ful . . . there.”
Frustration coiled as the elevator choked the signal. Visually tracing the doors, Leif felt his stomach tighten. He wanted to shake off Cell’s alarmist message, but he wouldn’t call without due cause. Only one person would arouse that much alarm in his buddy in light of the situation.
“P—crackle—vich.”
Peychinovich.
Cr
ap. He was walking into a trap.
FOURTEEN
SECURE LOCATION OUTSIDE ISTANBUL, TURKEY
Mercy lurched from her seat and tapped one of Barc’s screens. “That—who was that?” When he rewound the recording feed, she tapped it. “There! Right there.”
The team hunched around them, staring hard at what she pointed to. They glanced at her in question, but she knew she was right. “That man was at the beach club in the Bahamas. That’s Andrew.”
Culver’s face darkened. “You sure about that?”
“Absolutely. Something about him”—she shook her head, remembering—“felt off, wrong. So I tried to ingratiate myself into his time, see what I could pull out of him after some liquor. We had a couple of drinks—”
“That’s why we couldn’t find you.”
“—but I got nothing except a fake name: Andrew. He was locked tight, and then he bolted after y’all left.”
Lawe rubbed his jaw. “You’re sure they’re the same?”
Irritation clawed at her patience. “I didn’t do a DNA test, but yes. I don’t forget a face. I realized he’d been watching you guys. This is not a coincidence that he’s in Istanbul at the same time.” Mercy put a hand on Cell’s shoulder. “Can you run a facial rec on him?”
“Roger that,” Cell muttered.
“What about Runt?” Klein asked. “If that guy’s been in both places, maybe Leif is walking into trouble.”
* * *
HOTEL MISYON, ISTANBUL, TURKEY
“Elevator’s coming up,” Ruslan announced, looking out the open door of the suite.
The American. Could it be? Had he really figured it out? Iskra’s heart thundered, both wanting him to show and not wanting him to show. He could get killed being here, but then again, Bisera could get killed if he didn’t come.
“It should stop before reaching this floor,” Hristoff said. “Mikhail and Sergey have the ground floor and orders to allow no one to enter. If it comes up, you know what to do.”
“Someone from a lower level could simply be coming up to their room,” Iskra offered, trying to make her tone playful, but the panic drumming in her chest made it hard. “There’s more than one penthouse, and the garden atrium is a favorite spot.” She gestured up to the terraced garden. “Perhaps give them a chance to explain before you kill them?”